


Microphilia

by deuxexmycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxexmycroft/pseuds/deuxexmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is shrunk to six inches tall, and Sherlock can't resist 'experimenting'.</p><p>Warning: dubious consent</p>
            </blockquote>





	Microphilia

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Микрофилия](https://archiveofourown.org/works/742356) by [seventy_nine_percent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventy_nine_percent/pseuds/seventy_nine_percent)



John stared down at Sherlock, the cup still hovering by his lips. He looked terrified. "Excuse me?"

"That wasn't meant for human consumption," Sherlock repeated patiently.

John slammed the cup back onto the table and backed away, wiping at his lips. "What did I just drink?" he whispered, panicked.

Sherlock sat away from the microscope and stared at John with increasing interest. His flatmate had arrived looking soft and crumpled, tired after a long day at work with disagreeable patients. Now he was thrumming with energy, having consumed half a cup of what he thought was tea, but was actually a solution Sherlock had crafted from the leaves of a plant with rather ... interesting properties.

"There is a herb in South America that defends itself from those that wish to eat it with a very particular poison." Sherlock got to his feet and crowded the trusting John towards the light. "May I?" he asked, his fingers hovering by John's eyes.

"Yes," John said instantly, and Sherlock gently pulled on his eyelids to examine him more closely. His pupils were constricted, tiny dots on blue-grey iris. It was taking effect already. The delicate muscle fluttered against his fingertips as John reflexively tried and failed to blink. "Ah ... did you say poison, Sherlock?"

"A rather developed defense mechanism of said herb," Sherlock continued, taking John's face in his hands and examining him from either side. His skin was heating up under Sherlock's palms as the solution pounded through his bloodstream. "When anything tries to take a nibble, the poison stored in the plant cell cytoplasm is consumed along with it. Even in the tiniest quantities, it still has a major disabling effect."

John's eyes flew open wide. "Disabling!?"

"Not in the way you're thinking," Sherlock assured him. He stroked the hair off of John's forehead, taking the temperature there too. "It shrinks anything that eats it in into tiny proportions. The dust on the windowsill that you swept up this morning? Tiny dead flies."

John open and shut his mouth without saying anything, a hand flying up to clutch at Sherlock's sleeve. "God, Sherlock, what do I do?"

He was smaller already, perhaps two heads shorter than Sherlock and small enough that he had to hold up his jeans to stop them slipping down his thighs. Still, interestingly, he was perfectly in proportion. Even his hair was shrinking with him. The poison seemed to affect every cell in the body equally, which suggested an incredibly efficient transport mechanism -

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John, now visibly panicking, his little chest rising and falling as he bordered on hyperventilation.

Sherlock knelt in front of John to see him eye to eye. He was endearingly tiny, like a small child. "There's nothing to do but wait for the poison to pass out of your system. I wouldn't worry too much, I'm sure it's not fatal."

"Easy for you to say," said John. He'd given up trying to hold up his trousers let them fall to the floor, now wearing his oversized jumper like a nightgown. It slipped off a sloping shoulder as he shrunk before Sherlock's eyes, who was momentarily transfixed by the new stretch of skin before forcing himself to meet John's eyes again. "Are you sure it's not fatal? What about the flies?"

"That was nothing to do with the poison, I killed them," said Sherlock, coming to a decision and lifting John up into his arms. "I hate flies."

"Hey!" yelled John. He smacked at Sherlock's chest with a tiny fist as he was carried into the living room. "Put me down right now!"

"Perhaps it's better I keep you away from any other dangerous liquids that you might senselessly consume." He placed John on his armchair, and the now doll-sized man scrambled away from him, head peaking up from the folds of the jumper. He'd stopped shrinking at about six inches tall, a soft, breathing Ken doll. Sherlock crouched in front of the armchair, rapt at this perfect little creature.

John was complaining. Loudly. "So it's my fault I drank what I thought was freshly brewed tea from a teapot in my own kitchen?" he snapped, although his rage wasn't at all frightening in such a little body. "Here's a thought. Why don't you label your less obvious experiments, hm?"

"What does everything look like from down there?" Sherlock asked. "Can you see greater detail? Or is everything the same, just lower down?"

"I'm not going to be an experiment of yours, Sherlock!" John tugged the jumper up higher, his tiny fingers clutching the woolen collar to preserve his modesty. His face was still delightfully expressive, even when shrunken down. Sherlock could see every little tic of frustrated anger, and fear.

"No need to waste data," he said reasonably, plucking John from his hiding place. John struggled in his hand, feather light, his skin impossibly soft against Sherlock's.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, curling himself up self-consciously. "Please! I haven't got any clothes on."

"I know you sometimes feel ignored," said Sherlock, digging around his pocket for his magnifying glass. "But rest assured, my powers of deduction have not degraded to the point where I cannot tell if you are clothed or not."

It wasn't difficult to hold John still, practically effortless, in fact. John strained in earnest, exerting himself; Sherlock could feel the desperate pressure against his fingers. He flicked open his magnifying glass and held it over a horrified John, noting the red flush over his skin and the hammering of that tiny heart in his chest. It was _racing_.

"Please," John was murmuring, kicking his feet, toes curled.

"Do you feel warmer than usual?" Sherlock asked, closely examining the incredibly fine strands of John's hair that rubbed like silk on his skin.

John stared up at him with something like awe. Of course. The sight of Sherlock's giant eye through a magnifying glass was probably like something out of science fiction.

"Please, John," Sherlock said, understanding John's trepidation but still irritated by it. "Talk to me."

"I feel a little hotter than usual, yes," John said eventually, his voice subdued.

"When you start to cool, that will be the poison leaving your system," Sherlock explained, pocketing the magnifying glass. "Either by sweating which would take most of the day, or other bodily secretions." He manipulated his hand to spread John's legs over his little finger and thumb, and John kicked out in shock.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, helplessly spread open, his thigh muscles straining to close his legs. "What are you doing?"

He tried covering himself up, but Sherlock threaded his fingers over John's arms, lifting them easily out of the way, leaving him pinned and spread over Sherlock's hand. He thrashed about helplessly, the hot skin of his back sweaty with fear against Sherlock's palm. "Calm down," Sherlock shushed him. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Please, Sherlock," John begged. "Just let me sleep it off."

"I would feel safer to have the poison out of you now," Sherlock admitted. "I know nothing of its long term effects on humans, and I don't want to find out using you." He rubbed a finger down John's soft belly, watching it involuntarily flinch in. "You are ... very precious to me." He trailed the finger down to John's soft cock, and John inhaled sharply, his eyebrows shooting up.

Sherlock leant down and licked his tongue over John's crotch, feeling the soft tremors of the little body in the palm of his hand, and John stifled the beginnings of a low moan.

 _It must feel incredible_ , Sherlock mused. He alternated between gentle lapping and pointed probes with the tip of his tongue against John's slowly stiffening cock. John gasped and writhed, his hands clutching at Sherlock's fingers, his legs straining. His body shimmered with sweat, and he tasted delicious.

When Sherlock pulled away, John let out a little "No, don't stop -!" before biting his lip in embarrassment. Sherlock grinned at him, gave one more teasing lick, then dropped him unceremoniously on the armchair.

"I'll be back in a moment," Sherlock promised at John's indignant protesting, then dashed off to the bathroom to get a cotton bud. On his return, John was peering over the edge of the armchair, trying to judge whether jumping was a good idea or not. He let out a little yelp of surprise as he was snatched up again.

"What are you -- mmmph!" John was interrupted by a soft ball of white fluff being pushed into his mouth. His little hands clasped in alarm around the stem, trying to pull it out.

"Get it wet," advised Sherlock, moving the cotton bud in little jerking motions in and out as it was slowly coated in saliva. John stared up at him, wide eyed. "Very good," he murmured, as the cotton glistened. He tugged it out, and John wheezed at the assault on his throat.

"No!" he yelped as Sherlock manoeuvred him back into his exposing position, but he trailed off into a continuous stream of pleases and moans as Sherlock ducked down to lick and suck over his cock again.

"You need more stimulation," Sherlock said throatily against John's stomach, playing the wet cotton bud down the crease of John's arse to press against his hole. John squirmed as Sherlock pressed, pressed the tip in a little, teasing. When he slid the head of the cotton bud completely in, John's eyes snapped wide open. He let out a broken cry, his hands grasping for non-existent purchase. His heat had reached its peak, and he burned wonderfully in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock realized with belated surprise that he, too, was painfully aroused. His erection dug at the fabric of his trousers uncomfortably, so he pulled himself out and masturbated for a while, more confused than anything.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been sexually excited, nothing bored Sherlock more than the predictable tedium of human relationships. Although, he was pretty sure the last time he'd felt like this had something to do with John as well. Possibly when he accidentally on purpose walked in on him having a shower to catch a tantalizing glimpse of skin to file away.

Something about John's nakedness was frightfully appealing. Probably because he was so determinedly modest in day to day life, walking around with every possible button neatly done up.

John was struggling again, making little abortive thrusts with his hips, the cotton bud sticking obscenely out of him. Sherlock gently took it, rotated it to the sound of John's little gasps, and pressed it firmly and repetitively to a sensitive spot that had John arching back in pleasure with his head lolling.

"Sherlock!" John cried out as he was fucked by the wet cotton. He was trembling, shaking in Sherlock's hand, teetering on the edge of orgasm when Sherlock stopped. _Please_ , he was mouthing, over and over, his pretense at control long since broken down.

"You want more?"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, please!"

Sherlock grinned, and dipped his head to suck and lick at John's cock as he fucked him with the cotton bud. John didn't last long after that, spilling his almost unnoticeable amount of seed into Sherlock's mouth. The cotton bud was pulled out of him with a pop, and Sherlock chucked it in the fireplace. He cradled John through the after-tremors, pressing kisses to his stomach.

Just as quickly as it took for him to shrink, John grew back to normal size. He was back to himself in minutes, naked on the living room floor in Sherlock's arms, breathing like he'd just been in a race.

"See?" Sherlock said loftily, petting John's face. "I got it out of you."

"Thank you," murmured John, his voice hoarse. He turned his head, and his hair tickled over Sherlock's still erect cock.

"Perhaps you could return the favour," said Sherlock silkily, gripping the back of John's head to confirm that he wasn't, actually, asking a question.

But John just seemed confused. He stared in blinking confusion at Sherlock's free hand and took it in his own, larger one …

"Sherlock," John said slowly, a deceptively sweet smile sliding over his face. "Did you swallow?"

"I …" Sherlock froze, craning his head to look _up_ at John, and wasn't this odd, being short? "How interesting," he mused, as his clothes fell off of him. John pressed a kiss to his chest.

"I'll get a cotton bud."


End file.
